The Ghost of A Loss
by 2Old4This2
Summary: Takes place somewhere between Kate and the Nazi treasure. Neal and Peter are friends and partners. What would happen to one if they lost the other? Yes, there is angst, lots of angst, but the story will end well.
1. Chapter 1

**The Ghost of A Loss**

_Disclaimer: _White Collar _is then property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network. This story is intended for entertainment use only and no profit is being made._

_Long but necessary author's note: I apologize to the people waiting for the next chapter of_ Prisoners of Our Own Mistakes_. I am going to finish it, but life threw a major log jam at me which I have to deal with first. I went to a writing seminar which recommended using real life pain as fuel for emotional story telling and I'm afraid that's what I'm doing with this story. My year old kitten, who's name is Mozzie, has been diagnosed with an incurable, fatal cat virus. If you're a pet parent you understand how devastaing this can be. So I've written this very angsty piece to help deal with it. Sorry all, and this story is dedicated to Miss Mozzie, the kitten who will never have the chance to be a cat._

Chapter One

"Peter!"

_No, no, no, no, no! _Neal's heart cries out, even as his brain searches frantically for a way to save Peter Burke. _This can't happen! This won't happen!_

Peter stands a mere ten feet away from him, but it might as well be ten miles; Kevin Meehan, faithful soldier to the ill-famed Westies, is pressing a Ruger beneath Burke's right ear with such force Neal can see the mark it leaves from where he stands across the room. He has no doubt Meehan will pull the trigger – the best description of the Irishman is _insane._

"Caffrey, that's an Irish name, isn't it?" Of all the things Meehan could say right now, that has to be the most unexpected.

Neal nods, too startled for speech.

"Why don't you run," Meehan suggests. "If you don't interfere with my plans, I won't stop you."

Yeah, running's always been an option in Neal's life, but not now. Not when the person who gave him a second chance, a new life, depends on him; not when Peter's life hangs in the balance.

"Sure," he agrees with an easy smile. "Just send Agent Burke over to me and we'll be on our way."

"So, did you really think I'd be that simple, Caffrey?" Meehan punctuates his question by adjusting his grip on Peter. The gun now presses into the soft tissue underneath and behind the agent's jaw bone. Peter swallows involuntarily as he rolls his eyes wildly at his partner, wordlessly expressing something, his dislike at the turn of conversation, maybe.

"No," Neal agrees resignedly. "But you can't blame me for trying."

"Just go," Meehan says again. "Get the hell out of here and let me finish my job."

"I'm not going without Peter Burke."

There's a finality to the statement the Irishman can't avoid. Meehan's sigh is epic.

"Then you've signed your death warrant." He gives Neal an oddly understanding smile. "You are an Irishman, alright. You're just as reckless and pigheaded as the rest of us. I should shoot you first, to be kind, but I do have the agent right here . . ."

Neal Caffrey's body shifts slightly, readying itself for action. Inside himself, Neal is surprised Meehan can't see the changes happening – his heart is pounding loudly and erratically, his breaths are short and quickly drawn. He focuses on Kevin Meehan's index finger; he watches for the slightest twitch, any sign he's going to squeeze the trigger. If he times it just right . . . if he can cross the ten feet between them with laser accuracy, he can deflect the bullet aimed at Peter's brain. He will not give up his friend without a fight to the death.

The tiniest movement produces a blur of motion, but it is the report of the gun that stops the world for Neal Caffrey. He is late, his timing off, and now the only world he knows is gone.

All Neal can see is red: the red of blood as it spreads across the dirty yellow linoleum floor, the red of his rage as the magnitude of his loss hits home. Then the shock of the act itself recedes, leaving a hole in his soul that his friend and partner once filled.

"NO!" he yells as he lunges violently at Kevin Meehan, ready to end the man's life. Neal Caffrey has never believed that violence is the solution to any situation, but right now he isn't looking for a solution. He's looking for retribution.

He doesn't understand why he can't reach Meehan. His heart contracts sharply, painfully, keeping rhythm with the echoes of the gunshot as they reverberate off the walls of the dingy back hallway. Yet somehow, the pounding of that organ doesn't provide the energy his body needs to propel him forward.

Instead of the red that filled his vision just moments ago, Neal now finds himself slowly being absorbed into an icy gray mist. The heat of his anger is cooling to the frigid emptiness of loss. He can hear voices around him – Kevin Meehan laughing at his bloody handiwork, the FBI arriving to arrest him – but he is oddly removed from the noise. He needs to find what remains of Peter Burke. He wants to say goodbye to his friend.

Neal reaches with a heavy hand to clear the mist from his eyes. He sees Peter's legs splayed awkwardly on the floor and realizes that the man's torso landed propped against the wall. He hopes the shot was painless and that death was instant. If anyone should suffer for this it should be he, and not his friend.

He tries to get to Peter, but finds himself unable to move. Jones is holding him back; Neal can't understand why. Is it possible he's under arrest for his failure to protect his partner? Perhaps, but right now he doesn't care. He trembles with effort as he tries to free himself from Jones' imprisoning arms.

"Peter! Please, let me go to him!" he calls out when he is unable to free himself.

"Neal, don't move," Jones orders him.

Neal shivers, but gives up the fight he can't seem to win. "Peter," he says again, but this time it is in mourning. He shuts his eyes and feels tears stream warm tracks down his icy face.

"Neal, open your eyes and look at me."

His eyes fly open at the command. Hovering over him is Peter Burke. Or Peter Burke's ghost? Neal doesn't believe in ghosts; he never has, not even as a little boy. However, there really can be no other explanation for the apparition floating above him. There is blood all down the man's shirt from the hole the gun left underneath his chin, but Neal is pleased to see that his face is intact. It's bad enough to be dealing with a ghost; a ruined face would be too much to bear.

"Peter." Neal says the name softly, reverently. How do you talk to a ghost anyway? "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He can't take his eyes away from the deadly wound in his friend's throat. He realizes it is the physical counterpart to the hole in his life. He would give anything for their two injuries to be reversed.

"Just shut up, Caffrey." Neal is surprised at the roughness of Peter's voice; maybe the newly dead aren't too happy to find themselves in the Great Beyond. "What were you thinking, taking on Meehan that way? Only an idiot would have pulled what you pulled."

Neal knows the recriminations are deserved. He gambled with a friend's life and lost; he will have to live with that guilt for the rest of his life – his own private purgatory. The look on ghost Peter's face, however, puzzles him. It is the familiar combination of irritation and concern he he's seen there so often. It's the look that says _I'll do whatever it takes to help you get out of this mess._ But this mess can't be fixed; this mess is final, and his alone.

Neal shuts his eyes again – the sight of a kind, caring, _dead_ Peter is more than he can stand. He feels the pain of reality stabbing sharply in his chest; there is no ghost. Peter is gone and he is alone to face it.

"Damn it Neal!" The apparition shakes his shoulder sharply. He's remarkably solid for a ghost, Neal thinks idly. And why is dead Peter so warm, while live Neal is so cold? He wishes the ghost would just leave him alone to grieve in peace, but obviously that isn't going to happen.

"Peter, just go," he begs as his pain seems to grow worse. His breath hitches sharply in his chest as he continues. "I tried to save you but I couldn't. I just want to be alone now." Once again he finds himself close to tears.

The face floating over him seems confused. "Neal, listen to me," the ghost voice commands. "I know slipping away from me is the easiest way, and I know you're good at it." Peter's laugh is harsh and angry. "But right now," he continues, "you have to stay with me." The brown eyes plead with him. "You have to trust me."

Neal doesn't understand what is happening, but the one thing he has always been able to do is to trust Peter. He gropes through the mist for Peter's hand and is oddly comforted when it grasps his. He clings to that trusted appendage as everything else slips away, following the ghost until eventually there is nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Ghost of A Loss**

Chapter Two

Peter knows Neal Caffrey is dead, so why is it taking so damn long for someone to come and tell him?

He shifts awkwardly in the waiting room chair, keeping his eyes fixed on the doors to the trauma unit. He's holding his cellphone, but not using it; he doesn't really want to talk to anyone. Wrapping himself in solitude is the only comfort he has right now, and he's going to take what he can get.

As he waits, he unconsciously fingers at the stitches beneath his jaw. The gun sight on the Ruger had dug deeply into his flesh, causing a surprising amount of blood. He wonders if the elbow he jammed into Kevin Meehan's solar plexus would have been enough to deflect the bullet aimed at his brain, or if it was Neal's suicidal leap that had saved his life. He will always wonder and he will never know.

Anger bubbles up to fill the empty spot grief is trying so hard to carve into his heart. Why did Neal try such a stupid, dangerous stunt? The man is smart – didn't he see Peter signal that he was ready to make his move? All he had to do was wait five more seconds!

Peter pounds his hand into the seat next to him in sheer frustration, startling an elderly man seated nearby. He tries to smile apologetically at the other man, apparently without success; the older man moves to a seat across the room. Embarrassed by his lack of control, Peter's anger subsides as quickly as it arose. Whatever Neal's lunatic reasoning was, there is no changing the result.

There is no doubt in his mind that Neal is gone; Peter felt the exact moment of his passing. The ice-cold hand clutched in his had gone limp – and completely still. No one alive could be that motionless. The paramedics had rushed in just then, with tubes and masks and medications, unwilling to accept defeat, but Peter knows it was nothing but a rearguard action. Neal is dead, and all that he needs now is the confirmation.

As he continues to stare at the doors, Peter replays the past day in his mind, over and over, looking for some clue he missed, something which would have led to a different outcome. Something that would have saved Neal Caffrey. The White Collar division should never have been involved in an investigation involving Hell's Kitchen's notorious Irish mob, but the Westies had fenced several valuable post-Impressionist paintings stolen from private collectors, and Organized Crime had needed the combined skills of Neal Caffrey and Peter Burke for their sting. So there they were, making a backroom deal with Kevin Meehan, known to be crazy as a loon, when Peter's less-than-perfect post-Impressionist knowledge slipped them up, and suddenly he and Neal were in real trouble.

The double doors open, and his focus is once again on the present. He watches as a tired-looking man in green scrubs steps into the hallway. The doctor surveys the few nervous people in the waiting area, searching for someone in particular. Peter squares his shoulders, preparing for the official pronouncement of Neal's death, but instead the doctor heads toward a young woman huddled uncomfortably in the far corner of the room. The doctor squats down in front of her, speaks a few soft words, and suddenly they are both on their feet, the woman weeping in obvious relief. A watery smile lights her face; at least someone is getting a happy ending, Peter thinks.

He stands abruptly, swaying a little until he gains his equilibrium, and glares at his watch. The hospital staff must be filling out paperwork and preparing Neal's remains for him to view. He snorts harshly at this consideration of his feelings. There's no need for neatness; the sight of the blood pouring from the wound in Neal's midsection is one that he'll never forget.

A quick circuit around the waiting room loosens muscles that have been tense for far too long. He can't believe how stiff he is! Special Agent Peter Burke has always kept himself fit and ready for anything. Well, he isn't getting any younger, is he? Maybe that's the problem. If he had just kept the artists straight in his head; if he had been a little quicker to signal Neal that he was going to make his move; if he'd just shoved Meehan a little harder, maybe then Neal would still be alive. But he didn't and he wasn't, and all the second guessing in the world isn't going to bring the man back. But Peter knows, deep inside himself, that if he'd just kept control of the situation he wouldn't have lost his partner. He wouldn't have lost the man who had become his friend.

Resigned, he sits back down in his corner seat, jumping a little when his phone vibrates in his hand. The screen lights with the name _Diana. _Disinterestedly, he watches as the screen goes dark briefly, then as the icons for _missed call _and _new voicemail_ appear. Within in a few minutes, the phone vibrates again – Jones, this time. His team is worried about him. He smiles a tiny smile and rubs at his face. All the adrenaline he expended earlier has drained him. His weary eyes shut.

" _'Uh . . .she digs the hat.'_

_'Uh . . .she'd rather be wearing the hat.' " _

Peter jerks his head up. Where did that come from, he asks himself; and how could he have fallen asleep? A quick glance at his watch reveals the lateness of the hour. Yup, the old man is definitely losing his edge, he acknowledges unhappily, he never had any trouble with an all-nighter before.

His mind skips back to that day at JFK airport, Neal's first day as his consultant, with the cartoon hat and the cocky smile. Was it really just over two years ago? It seems more like two decades. That first day, neither he nor Neal had trusted one another. It was mutual respect for each other's skills that had them working together. That and the fact that Neal needed to be out of prison in order to track down Kate. Peter was fully prepared then to throw Neal back in jail if their arrangement didn't work out, or if Neal didn't toe the line.

An unexpected smile tugs at Peter's mouth, even as he runs a hand fiercely over his eyes. Nope, Neal doesn't toe the line – he didn't then, he doesn't now. _Didn't_, he reminds himself, past tense. Sometimes Neal ignored the law, which, Peter admits to himself, he is never completely comfortable with. Most times, though, Neal just bends the law, enough to get the bad guys caught.

God, he is so tired! Standing again and stretching, Peter turns away from the cursed double doors to gaze down the hallway toward the exit. He could step outside, just for a minute, get some fresh air and clear his head – he could call El. Elizabeth and her sister are driving to their parents' house for a visit. El will turn the car around in an instant, Peter knows, if he tells her what has happened. She'll come to him and cry with him; she'll comfort him and tell him it's not his fault. The idea is so tempting he pulls his phone from his pocket and heads towards the parking lot.

Turning around and returning to the waiting room takes all his willpower. But if he talks to Elizabeth, she'll find a way to take the blame away from him, and Peter's not ready for that yet. Right now he needs the guilt to keep him going. Besides, this won't be easy for her, either, and he wants to spare her for as long as he can. From the day she met Neal, Elizabeth has been fond of him. She's always seen something in him, something bigger than a conman and a thief. His wife trusted Neal Caffrey; maybe not with the silver, but with her husband's life. And she wasn't wrong this time, either.

You trust a friend; you trust a partner. Somehow, Peter trusted Neal.

" _'You're the only one in my life I trust.' "_

Peter leans his head back against the wall and shuts his eyes. He can feel tears prickle behind the closed lids and orders them away. He's not ready for the luxury of sorrow yet. But shutting his eyes no longer offers him a refuge because all he can see is Neal Caffrey's face. In quick, horrible, succession he sees smiles, frowns, anger, and trust. Always trust.

" _''You've got my back, right?' "_

That day, after they were trapped in Avery's vault, Peter answered Neal's question with a nod and a smile. This day, Peter knows he failed. He lost a partner today; worse, he lost a friend.

The doors to the trauma ward open with a whoosh, and a petite woman dressed in crumpled scrubs steps into the hallway carrying a clipboard. Peter watches as she steps to the admitting desk and hands the clerk some forms. As she turns to the waiting room, Peter knows she is looking for him. He's startled to find that his hands are shaking, and that he can't catch his breath. Even though he knows what he's going to hear, now that the moment has come, he's not sure he can bear to hear the words. He's just not ready to face this loss.

"Agent Burke?" The woman's dark eyes search his face as he stands, shoving his hands in his pockets so she can't see them shake. He swallows convulsively.

"Yes, I'm Burke." He's relieved to hear his voice is steady.

"I'm Dr. Sengupta." She extends a tiny hand to him. He is surprised at how strong it is when he shakes it. "Why don't we sit?" She waves her hand at the row of seats behind Peter.

Peter doesn't want to sit. He wants to run and hide. Suddenly, he doesn't think he can hear the words the doctor is about to speak.

"I'm sorry you had to wait so long," she apologizes. "Mr. Caffrey's condition was extremely critical when he arrived." Peter already knows this. _Just say the words!_, his tired brain screams.

"I don't believe I have seen another case with blood-loss as extreme as Mr. Caffrey's. Except for the blood-loss, the injury itself wasn't too severe. We worked very hard," she pauses – and an unexpected smile flits across her features, "and were able to stabilize him. He's just gone up for surgery." Her smile broadens. "I am cautiously optimistic of your partner's chances for recovery."

Peter Burke's world tilts, reels, then rights itself.

"My God," he breathes.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Ghost of A Loss**

Chapter Three

"You're damn lucky – you know that, don't you?" Peter Burke clasps his hands behind his head as he leans back in his chair, legs stretching out in front of him.

"You call this lucky?" Neal counters, wincing as he shifts himself to a slightly more comfortable position in the narrow hospital bed.

"The doctors say they've never seen anyone with the volume of blood-loss you had make such a good recovery." Peter smiles encouragingly at his friend, but receives only a sour look in response. Apparently Caffrey's recuperated just enough to know he feels miserable.

Three days have passed since their encounter with Kevin Meehan, and the two men are back on familiar footing. Well, except for the fact that Peter looks positively fashionable compared to his younger partner, whose unshaven face and uncombed hair make him almost unrecognizable as the suave Neal Caffrey.

Neal shifts again, his breath catching as the stitches in his abdomen pull. Peter's at his side in an instant, helping Neal settle himself without tangling the wires and tubes attached to his body. A sideways glance at the monitor reveals the jagged, uneven dancing of Neal's heart. It gives Peter a chill to think how precarious Neal's hold on life still is. It was so close.

"Hey," Peter offers, "why don't I leave so you can take a nap. El got home last night and I imagine she'll want to drop by later."

"Tell her I'm sorry she cut her trip short."

"I don't know if she's too sorry," Peter says with a smile. "Sometimes her parents can be a little . . . intense," he explains.

Peter didn't call his wife until after Neal's first 24 hours in the ICU. When he did, he calmly explained to her what had happened and assured her that Neal was on the mend. The conversation went well until his voice cracked, ever so slightly, as he was describing Neal's injury. She and her sister drove straight through so she could be with her husband as soon as possible. He can't imagine what her parents thought. He doesn't really care; it's too good to have her home.

Neal's eyes have drifted shut, and Peter stands, preparing to leave. Only Neal's hand, clenching the bed sheet, gives away the fact that he's awake and in pain. Peter will stop and mention it to Neal's nurse on his way out.

"Peter!" Neal's voice is quiet but imperative. Peter turns back to the bed, a question on his face.

"Don't go yet."

"Is something wrong?" Peter's rests his hands on the bed rail. "Do you need me to get someone?"

"No, I'm good." Well, maybe good isn't the right word, Neal thinks, but he doesn't want to give Peter anything else to worry about. The man is such a control freak, always having to make everything right.

"The other day, with Meehan," Neal begins. He's lost count of how many days have actually passed, so vague is good, he reasons.

"Neal, we don't have to talk about this. You don't need to give a statement until you're up to it."

Neal suspects his friend is purposely misunderstanding him and continues on without a pause.

"No," he says, "not that. You asked me a question. At least, I think you asked me a question." Neal isn't sure which parts he remembers from that day are real and which aren't, but he needs to answer the question anyway.

"Yeah, you were a little out of it," Peter agrees. He tries to smile, but isn't too successful. The sight of Neal's blood smeared all over that dirty floor is still too fresh in his mind.

"I thought you were dead," Neal states bluntly.

Peter is taken aback. He looks at his friend's face, still paper-white from blood-loss, in disbelief.

"You thought _I_ was dead?" He wants to make sure he heard Neal correctly.

"I was waiting for Meehan to make a move," Neal explains. "I was ready to jump as soon as his finger twitched. I figured if I timed it just right . . ." Neal pauses to draw a shaky breath, "if I timed it right, I could keep him from killing you. But I was late, and the gun went off, and there was blood everywhere."

"Your blood," Peter points out to him.

"Peter, there was blood all down the front of your shirt."

"From a cut, Neal. It took all of three stitches to close it." Peter tilts his head back, displaying the ER doctor's handiwork.

Neal looks down and away, obviously puzzled. "I saw you fall," he says finally, looking up again. "Your body was shoved back against the wall. And there was all that blood. You were dead."

Peter's instinctive reaction is to reach over and shake Neal. How could such a smart man be so stupid, he wonders. He'd been through 24 hours of hell because Neal mistook a scratch for a kill shot?

Peter opens his mouth, ready to explain to his partner just how ridiculous the whole situation is, but one look at Neal stops him. He takes in the confused blue eyes, contrasting starkly with the white skin. He sees Neal's hand fidgeting unconsciously with the bed sheet and the uneven lines on the heart monitor. Turning away from his friend, he takes a few breaths to calm his own feelings.

"Peter?"

"Yeah?" Turning around, his eyes meet Neal's.

"You were dead; I was sure you were dead. It was unthinkable, almost unbearable. I wanted to kill Meehan. I would have killed him if I could have gotten to him. That's why I did what I did." Neal continues to look at Peter, his blue eyes holding the brown ones steady.

Peter doesn't respond, he can't respond, too many emotions are flooding through him. He remembers holding Neal back, out of the flames, when the plane blew up and Kate died. He thinks he understands Neal's actions now.

"I wanted to die," Neal states baldly.

That statement Peter can answer.

"You did die, Neal." Neal's eyes widen in surprise but now he has no response. One look at Peter's face tells him this is not the time for a smart comeback.

"When you jumped at Meehan, he pulled the gun away from me and shot _you._ There was blood everywhere, your blood," he adds again for emphasis. "The shot nicked an artery." Peter pauses, drawing another deep breath. "You were talking to me, or trying to, but you weren't making much sense and we couldn't stop the bleeding." Peter stares beyond the hospital bed, his mind back in that dirty hallway three days ago. "You were holding onto me and suddenly you went still, completely still. You were dead."

He returns his focus to Neal. "Somehow they brought you back, but I didn't know that, Jones pulled me away. I spent three hours believing, no," he corrects himself angrily, " being certain, _certain_ that you were dead. I sat in that damn waiting room for hours, expecting someone to come and tell me. And there was nothing I could do but wait." Peter's voice is tight and despairing. "It was the worst three hours of my life." He turns away from the bed again, running his hand through his hair.

"Peter, I'm sorry."

Whirling around, Peter grabs the bed rails so tightly his knuckles turn white. "Don't be sorry," he says with a vehemence that surprises them both. "Just don't ever do anything that stupid again!"

A long minute passes; neither man speaks. The tension slowly leaves Peter's taut body and he smiles sheepishly. "I'm sorry, too," he admits. "I'm sorry I put you in that position." Neal nods a gracious acceptance, a matching smile on his face.

Peter sits back down in the chair, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"After you were shot, you kept apologizing to me. Do you remember why?"

It's Neal's turn to look embarrassed. "I thought you were dead, remember? I was apologizing for getting you killed."

"But if I was dead . . . ?"

Refusing to meet his friends questioning look, Neal looks down at his hands. "I was talking to your ghost," he says quietly.

"My what?"

"I thought you were dead, remember?" Irritation replaces embarrassment in Neal's face. "Since you were dead and you were talking to me, I assumed you were a ghost," he concludes.

A variety of emotions cross Peter's face, ending with puzzlement. "So when I told you to stay with me . . ." Peter isn't sure he can finish the thought. "That's when you died."

"Except I didn't die," Neal points out.

But Peter knows differently – he was there, he felt it happen. His breath catches and he has to remind himself to breathe. Neal was willing to give up everything for him.

"Peter? Are you okay?" Neal is looking at him anxiously.

"Neal, why would you do that?" He doesn't explain his question; he doesn't have to.

"I trust you."

And there it was – you trust a partner, you trust a friend.

"Neal," Peter says, after a moment of silence. "When you're cleared to come back to work, you're getting nothing but surveillance van jobs."

"Peter," Neal begins, but doesn't get a chance to finish.

"If you haven't got enough sense to take care of yourself, you're stuck in the van."

"Peter!"

"Are you going to argue with me Caffrey? I can do whatever I want with you, you know that."

"I'll work in the van," Neal counters, "as long as you do, too. You're the one who screwed up the deal with Meehan."

Peter takes a breath, ready to argue. Then, surprising himself, he laughs. "Deal," he agrees.

Neal smiles in return, but once again his eyes close. Watching closely, Peter realizes this time his friend really is asleep. As he quietly gets to his feet to leave, he glances at the heart monitor again. The dancing green line is smooth and regular.

###

_End note: Thank you, everyone, for your kind thoughts for little Miss Mozzie. Right now she's holding her own so we have a little more time together. I'll take what I can get. Also, thank you for putting up with my overabundance of angst. I promise I'm going back to work on the other story now!_


End file.
